


lemon color, honey glow

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Aziraphale is Patient (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dildos, Emotionally Significant Dildo, F/F, Glass Dildos, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: “They don’t think about it. Breathing. But I do. I feel like I have to, sometimes. Like I’ll burst if I don’t take the biggest fucking breath right the fuck now. And I can’t figure out why. Sometimes I do it because I’m nervous. Sometimes I do it when I’m…”“Excited?” Aziraphale offered, looking hopeful in the prospect of a question successfully answered.“Turned on.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 121





	lemon color, honey glow

**Author's Note:**

> FEBRUARY. I've been writing this monstrosity since FEBRUARY.
> 
> can it even be counted as a monstrosity if it's less than 5k? whatever, it's done and I'm proud of it.
> 
> much and many and all thanks to dragon_with_a_teacup who is the best beta reader I could ever ask for.
> 
> also damn the "glass dildos" tag doesn't exist on ao3 yet I am shooketh.
> 
> title from Beach House's perfect song "Lemon Glow"

Crowley wondered, and not for the first time, if her corporeal form could spend too long on earth, if there were an incubation period for human nature, and that one day it would overcome the essence of demon. Thick like ichor, her infernal inclinations. There was no one Crowley could ask to clarify questions or assuage her fears.

Crowley forced herself to take a breath and didn’t know why.

In her research—countless hours spent reading psychology textbooks and watching uni lecturers on YouTube and stewing on her sofa while she listened to podcasts about mental health—Crowley came to realize that humans had innate behaviors and bodily processes, breathing being one of them. Automatic. Being a demon, this didn’t apply to Crowley, and there wasn’t much research on the nature of demons[1] or the overlap of their nature with other creatures.

Crowley forced herself to take another breath and didn’t know why.

“Darling?” Aziraphale’s voice insinuated itself into the thunderstorm swirl of Crowley’s human anxiety. “Are you with me?” She was bare: naked and flushed and towering over Crowley knelt in supplication.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in her hands, palms soft against the cut corner of Crowley’s jawline. Crowley felt the miracle-rush of heat, summoned in an effort to calm her. Crowley tilted her head into the warmth, a benediction. She took another breath before she lifted her eyes to Aziraphale’s face, to the halo-light of short blonde curls. Aziraphale’s smile was overwhelming in its brightness and sincerity, so Crowley had to shut her eyes before she answered. “I’m here.”

“Tell me your color, love.”

Crowley laughed, soft, no more than a rush of air. “Green. Promise.”

Aziraphale moved her grasp to Crowley’s hair, smoothing back non-existent unruly strands. Crowley’s hair had never been anything less than exactly as she willed it to be[2], but she allowed Aziraphale to card her fingers through it.

“Open your eyes for me, Crowley.”

Crowley did. Her irises must have met Aziraphale’s approval because the angel beamed down at her. “Good girl. Tell me what’s on your mind.” Aziraphale had a trick she used on humans, but only in extreme situations. A subtle influence towards calm accompanied by a rush of endorphins and a promise of a good dream. She didn’t have to use the trick on Crowley, and never would, but there was something about her voice and her smile that had a similar effect on Crowley’s subconscious.

“Thinking about breathing. Humans do it automatically. We don’t have to, but we do anyway. S’like…” Crowley glared at the ceiling and mentally grasped at the vestiges of her annoyance. “They don’t think about it. Breathing. But I do. I feel like I have to, sometimes. Like I’ll burst if I don’t take the biggest fucking breath right the fuck now.” Crowley forced her shoulders to untense, another automatic motion. “And I can’t figure out why. Sometimes I do it because I’m nervous. Sometimes I do it when I’m…”

“Excited?” Aziraphale offered, looking hopeful in the prospect of a question successfully answered.

“Turned on,” Crowley countered, determined to not show it physically, but she was belied by the flush that Aziraphale surely wouldn't miss beneath her fingertips.

There was no dearth to Aziraphale’s softness, apparently, because the look she gave Crowley soothed the last of the edges of anxiety. “It is difficult, isn’t it? To determine whether your heart beats out of fear or fancy? Especially when neither you or I are hardwired to understand human emotions.”

“Bloody infuriating,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale took Crowley in her arms after that admission. Crowley breathed in her love’s perpetual ink-and-pastry scent, took solace in the impossible heartbeat beneath the angel’s breast. Her own heartbeat finally started to slow itself down, match its rhythm to Aziraphale’s.

The smile never left Aziraphale’s voice. “What do you need, dearest?” She spoke the words into Crowley’s hair, a brushstroke to ease the final tangles of her hesitation.

The demon’s answer was simple. “You.”

The angel laughed, full-bodied and heavy. “While that’s very flattering, my love, you’ll have to be a little more specific.”

“I’ve got a one-track mind, angel.” Crowley pressed a kiss to one of Aziraphale’s bared shoulders; she couldn’t resist licking the skin before pulling away to look up at Aziraphale’s exasperated expression. “Any other answers I could give would just be variants of ‘you.’”

The sigh Aziraphale gave in answer held no hints of the expression she wore. Instead, she took Crowley’s hands to lead her up and off of their bed. “I’ll ask another question, then.”

Crowley knew what was coming; they’d perfected this routine ages ago, but repetition did not abate the renewed beating of her hyperactive heart.

“Do you need me to take care of you?”

No matter how Crowley answered, Aziraphale would not shame her. There had never been judgment here, in this understanding and promise between them. If either of them asked, the other would provide. So it had been, and so it will be.

“Yes.”

“Go pick out a toy, love.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, then ushered towards the opposite corner of their room in a tangle of limbs. “That will better inform me of what, exactly, to do with you.”

There was a drawer in the armoire across from the bed[3]. The middle-most drawer housed what Aziraphale affectionately referred to as “The Collection"[4]; an amalgamation of additions to their ethereally occult (or was it occultly ethereal?) sex life. Velvet-lined and interior-lit[5], the assortment always made a little Crowley feel a little overwhelmed. It was usual fare for her to make this decision: to choose exactly how and with what Aziraphale would fuck her. Aziraphale, standard-having and not prone to describing their exploits so basely, would definitely not approve of the filthy inner monologue Crowley was currently running.

Crowley reached out, running her fingers over their shared collection, trying to make a decision in a timely manner[6]. There was the purple rabbit contraption with seven different vibrational settings, but it felt a little too mechanical. Aziraphale’s personal favorite was a gaudy, silicon rainbow number she usually paired with a maroon leather harness they'd purchased in Portugal a few years previous. Crowley didn't have a favorite. Crowley acquired touch and scent and taste memories with every member of their shared collection; could touch each piece and remember their acquisition, their first use, the most memorable of uses since being angelically and demonically possessed.

Crowley's grazing fingers kept coming back to a particular item—glass, tinted green, textured all over with small knobs, raised to catch the slow movement and Crowley's gaze. Crowley remembered Aziraphale finding it online, her eyes shining as she turned the screen of Crowley's phone towards its rightful owner. She'd said, excitedly, how the dildo reminded her of similar ones throughout history ("It reminds me of the jade phalluses we saw in Babylon, do you remember Crowley?" "Please, don't call them phalluses, angel. I beg you. It's a fucking dildo.")

Aziraphale smiled when Crowley turned around, her choice proffered to the angel, asking for implicit permission. "Very good, my darling," Aziraphale purred.

Crowley felt herself grow embarrassingly warm, pleased to have chosen correctly[7]. Aziraphale held out her hand, waiting expectantly for the dildo. Crowley grinned, taking Aziraphale's wrist and pressing a kiss to it, before doing as she was implicitly bidden. “Lie back,” Aziraphale said, the order given a little breathlessly by Crowley's impromptu kiss. Crowley was moving before the words were finished being spoken. “Against the pillows, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley didn’t mind. She banished her loose cotton shirt, the only article of clothing left on her body, with a subdued snap hidden beneath the pillows.

Aziraphale pouted, and Crowley winked in response. Aziraphale hadn’t strictly forbidden miracles. Yet.

“No more of that.” Aziraphale moved to stand beside Crowley, hovering over the bed. She reached out with her free hand to glide it along Crowley's stomach, ghosts her fingertips in a haunting of her breasts. Crowley laughed an unintentional giggle as Aziraphale grazed her nails over Crowley’s neck. “No more miracles, Crowley.”

Crowley nodded, gaze fixed on Aziraphale’s hands as they moved over body slowly, agonizing and anticipatory in their trek along her angles.

Aziraphale paused the movement of her hand, staying still until it forced Crowley to look in her eyes. “You’ll answer me verbally, Crowley. You know better.”

“Yes.”

“Crowley…” The warning in Aziraphale’s voice made the bloodrush of Crowley’s veins move faster, but it was a different kind of anxiety: anticipatory and expectant.

“Yes, Aziraphale.”

“Good girl.” Aziraphale sat next to Crowley, settling into the bed’s comfort. “Stay still, my darling. And close your eyes."

For moments that felt like hours, there was only silence. Crowley had heightened senses when she put her mind to it[8], and she swore she could hear the beating of hers and Aziraphale's hearts in tandem, a rhythm eternally matched since the beginning of time itself. Through the rush Crowley thought she could hear Aziraphale moving subtly, silently, across their sheets. The movement was expertly camouflaged; Aziraphale would only be heard by Crowley if she wanted to be heard. Crowley dug her fingers into the linen; she'd been told to hold still and keep her eyes shut. She didn't dare imagine what would happen should she disobey.

Aziraphale's voice was soft when she spoke into Crowley's temple, but Crowley still jumped at the suddenness and closeness. "I'm going to talk to you, Crowley. You are allowed to speak, but you aren't allowed to argue. Do you understand?" Her breath spun spirant over her face, warm in words and explication.

Crowley nodded.

She took a deep breath and didn't know why. She wondered at multiple things at once; why did arousal involve the same pheromones as anxiety, how did the angel's breath always smell wonderful, what did Aziraphale have planned for her, where would she be touched first, who was Crowley, exactly, to deserve any affection in the form of this explicit care and comfort? what had she done in her long life to warrant the angel's love? If Crowley thought for too long about it, she'd attempt to enumerate all the reasons she was undeserving of anything the angel could give her, as if--

Crowley took a deep breath.

"Good girl," Aziraphale said, as if sensing the clearing of Crowley's mind.

There was ice on Crowley's thigh immediately after. That was what it felt like: cold contact, almost burning in its intensity.

Crowley, logically, knew what was happening. A frivolous[9] miracle was being utilized to cool their toy to a lower temperature, all the more contrasted by Crowley's slowly overheating skin. She ran hot, she ran heated, there was fire running through any demons' veins left over from the sulphur burn of falling. Crowley burned whatever she touched, and Azirphale--

Aziraphale cooled her down. Metaphorically, sure; literally, currently.

The glass moved up Crowley's thigh, trailing in lazy and aimless waves so that Crowley couldn't plot their destination. Once, with an indeterminable hand movement, Crowley felt the brush of Azirapahle's knuckles, and the warmth of them made Crowley gasp aloud. The contrast was stark, almost painful in its difference. Any human might have flinched back at the intensity of the cold glass and warm hands.

Crowley wasn't quite human, though, was she?

"You're very good, Crowley. I've always thought so. You're good at being devilish. You're good at taking care of me." The glass moved closer to the apex of Crowley's thighs, and as it did, the temperature rose with the movement. "You're good when you're wet for me. I can see your arousal, did you know? And my senses might not be as highly attuned as yours, but I _swear_ I can smell you, too. You're so good, my darling. Dripping and opening up for me like this. You're a mess, and I haven't even touched your cunt yet."

"Jesus, _angel_ , you can't-- _shit_!"

Aziraphale's other, unoccupied hand gripped Crowley's thigh, ensuring that Crowley wouldn't move them [10]. Her nails, short as they were, dug into her skin enough that Crowley could feel each pinprick of glorious pain. She could still feel the slide of glass, the rise of warmth, and, somewhere, the angel hovering above her, simultaneously comforting and terrifying.

It was times like these that Crowley wondered what, exactly, an angelic smiting felt like, and if it was at all close to the sensations Crowley was currently experiencing.

There was warm glass at her entrance, barely dipping into her folds yet Crowley could acutely hear the wet movement. "Angel," Crowley panted imploringly. Warmth was everything, humidifying the air around her, and Crowley was grateful she didn't necessarily need breath, because she was having trouble accomplishing the task. Aziraphale moved so blessedly slow, and Crowley meant the sentiment in precisely that connotation. Aziraphale pushed further inside of her, but not enough to make her feel physically full. She craved the fulfilling, she needed the solidity inside of her and around her and everywhere.

There was a rustle of sheets, a dipping of the mattress with Aziraphale's movements, but Crowley couldn't tell how the angel was moving, couldn't identify her intentions. She preferred it that way, so she kept her eyes closed. There was suddenly breath against her hip, lips whispering into the skin and bone of her. "You're so _beautiful_ , my sweet. Laid out for me, a feast for the eyes. Taking me--" at this, with perfect timing, Aziraphale slid the heated glass fully inside her, the ridges of it a teasing agony. "God, but you take me so well."

"Fuck me," Crowley begged, beseeching and beckoning simultaneously. "Please, angel."

Because she was the best of bastard angels worth knowing[11], Aziraphale did.

"I want you to watch, darling," Aziraphale said, her voice on the fringes of breathlessness but a clear indication that she was just as affected as Crowley was. "Open your eyes and watch me. I'll show you how good you are and you _will_ watch me."

Crowley's eyes flew open, but she couldn't focus. Her gaze was distracted by too many sensations at once: the glass moving steadily inside of her, her hands still clenched in the sheets, and Aziraphale above her, balancing on her right hand and looking down at Crowley with an adoration that, despite their years together, Crowley still wasn't accustomed to. Aziraphale was smiling, and not with teasing or taunting. It was pure sincerity. Crowley had doubts--they were as much a part of her demonic essence as questions and mischief were--but here, subject to the angel's careful handling and wholehearted concentration, there was a remembrance of grace.

Crowley moaned, realizing very suddenly that she was falling over an edge she hadn't even noticed.

"Tell me. Tell me to-- _God_ , angel, please, love, tell me to--"

Aziraphale smiled, did not stop the movement of her hand, and whispered, "Come for me."

Because Crowley was good at following only very specific directions, she did. 

_It's what you do_   
_This pulls me through_   
_I come alive_

### Footnotes

1. Save for the following examples: pseudo-research on demonology that dealt entirely with the instances of demons in human religious texts, and letters from Sir Walter Scott to J. G. Lockhart, esq., that concerned the effect of demons on Joan of Arc. One of these was close to the true account.↩

2. Save for once during her stint as a nanny, where a certain not-antichrist managed to get a piece of pink bubblegum lodged in her meticulously miracled bun. Crowley couldn’t be mad, because that was exactly the kind of devilish behavior she was teaching Warlock. Aziraphale had poorly hidden her mirth upon seeing Crowley attempting to extract the offending wad of sugar with peanut butter later that night.↩

3. They’d come across it at an estate sale in Chelsea before moving to Devil’s Dyke. It was the only piece of furniture they’d mutually agreed on. The seller, seeing how much they’d bickered over it, resolved to up the price. He would’ve gotten away with it, except Crowley had lowered her sunglasses, and Aziraphale had glowed. The armoire was theirs for a much lower price than advertised after that.↩

4. And what Crowley derisively referred to as “The Cock Cache.”↩

5. Aziraphale had insisted.↩

6. Which, for beings with no sense of the passage of time, meant, quite literally, fuck all.↩

7. Any choice she made would have been the correct choice.↩

8. But more often than not, she was too preoccupied to pay attention to any of them.↩

9. Aziraphale would argue the opposite.↩

10. Like _hell_ was Crowley going to move them.↩

11. Truth be told, Aziraphale was the _only_ bastard angel worth knowing in Crowley's book, but it didn't make the sentiment any less truthful or meaningful. For Crowley, Aziraphale was a representation of every exception and a beacon of singularity and had been since the Beginning.↩


End file.
